You dream of the road.

It is black and wet. The mud sucks at your boots. You are walking. You do not know why you are walking. You only know you must walk. The air is cold. It bites your nose. You see a light ahead. It is not a lantern. It is not a fire. It is a shape. It stands in the middle of the path.

You wake up.

The room is gray. Rain hits the glass. It sounds like fingers tapping. You sit up. Your head aches. The pain is sharp. It is in the back of your skull. You know what it is. You have known for weeks. The sickness is moving. It eats the edges of you. You look at the mirror. The face is yours. The eyes are dark. The lips are pale. You touch your cheek. It is dry.

"Get up," you say.

Your voice is rough. It scrapes the air. You are the Inquisitor. You have been for three years. You hunt the false. You hunt the liars. You hunt the ones who break the law of the land. Today, you hunt yourself. Or so you think.

You dress. The clothes are heavy. Wool and leather. They smell of smoke and old blood. You put on your hat. You check your sword. The steel is dull. You clean it. You wipe the dust away. You look at the blade. It reflects your face. The face is hollow.

You go to the door. You open it. The hallway is empty. The shadows are long. You walk down the stairs. Your knees click. You do not stop. You reach the street. The town is asleep. The fog is thick. It hides the houses. It hides the people. You walk to the square. The market is closed. The stalls are empty. The cloth is wet.

You sit on a bench. You wait. You know who is coming. You have seen him before. He is your ally. He is your friend. His name is Thomas. He was a soldier. Now he is a ghost. He walks the streets at night. He looks for the same things you do. But he looks with different eyes. He looks with pity. You look with judgment.

He comes out of the fog. He is tall. His coat is brown. His hair is white. He carries a staff. He walks slowly. He sees you. He stops. He smiles. The smile is sad. It is tired.

"Good morning, Inquisitor," he says.

"Thomas," you say. "Why are you here?"

"I was waiting," he says. "For you to wake up."

"You think I am sick," you say.

"I think you are lost," he says. "You have been walking in circles. You are chasing a shadow. You are afraid of the dark."

"I am not afraid," you say. "I am hunting."

"Who are you hunting?" he asks.

"The one who took my daughter," you say.

Thomas stops. He looks at you. His eyes are wide. He does not smile now. He looks at you with fear.

"Your daughter," he says. "Is dead, Inquisitor. She has been dead for ten years."

The words hit you. They hit your chest. They hit your stomach. You feel the air leave your body. You try to speak. You cannot. Your mouth is open. No sound comes out.

"Ten years," Thomas says. "She was buried in the churchyard. I watched. I held the shovel. You were not there. You were in the war. You were fighting for the King. You did not come back for her."

"I remember," you say. The voice is small. It is a child’s voice. "I remember the coffin. I remember the rain. I remember the dirt."

"Then why do you hunt her?" Thomas asks.

"Because she is alive," you say. "I see her. In the fog. She calls my name. She says, 'Father, help me.' She says, 'I am cold.' I hear her. I cannot stop hearing her."

Thomas shakes his head. He steps closer. He puts a hand on your shoulder. His hand is warm. It is solid.

"You are sick, brother," he says. "The sickness is in your mind. It is eating your memory. It is making you see things. You are not a hunter. You are a victim. The sickness is the enemy. Not your daughter. Not the ghosts. The sickness."

You pull away. You stand up. Your legs are weak. You stagger. You hold the wall of the church. The stone is cold. It burns your hand.

"I am not sick," you say. "I am strong. I am the law. I do not break. I do not bend."

"You are breaking," Thomas says. "You are falling. Let me help you."

"No," you say. "I will not. I will find her. I will bring her back. I will fix this. I will make it right. Justice must be done. Even if it kills me. Even if it kills you."

Thomas looks at you. He sees the madness in your eyes. He sees the fire. He sees the end. He sighs. He takes his hand off your shoulder. He steps back.

"Then I will leave you," he says. "Go. Walk. Hunt. But know that the road does not end. It only turns."

He turns. He walks into the fog. He disappears. You are alone. You stand in the square. The rain starts to fall. It is cold. It soaks your clothes. It soaks your skin. You feel the chill. You feel the pain. The pain is in your head. It is in your bones.

You start to walk. You do not know where you are going. You walk to the edge of town. You walk to the forest. The trees are tall. They block the sky. The ground is soft. It is full of leaves. It is full of mud. You walk deeper. The fog is thicker here. It wraps around you. It holds you.

You hear a sound. It is a voice. It is small. It is clear.

"Father."

You stop. You listen. The voice is everywhere. It is in the wind. It is in the leaves. It is in the mud.

"Where are you?" you shout.

"Here," the voice says. "In the dark."

You run. You run through the trees. Your feet slip. You fall. You hit the ground. The pain is sharp. It is in your side. You get up. You keep running. You do not see the path. You do not see the trees. You only see the light. It is ahead. It is bright. It is white.

You reach the clearing. The light is there. It is a circle. It is on the ground. It is glowing. You walk toward it. You step into it.

The pain stops. The cold stops. The fog stops. You are standing in a field. The sky is blue. The sun is warm. There are flowers. They are red and yellow. They are bright.

You look down. You are not alone. A woman is sitting on the grass. She is young. She is beautiful. She has dark hair. She has blue eyes. She is looking at you. She is smiling.

It is your daughter.

"Elara," you say.

"Hello, Father," she says.

You kneel. You cry. You do not care. The tears fall. They hit the grass. You reach for her. You touch her face. It is real. It is warm.

"You are alive," you say. "I found you. I brought you back."

Elara shakes her head. She looks at you with pity. She looks at you with love.

"I am not alive, Father," she says. "I am not here. You are here. You are in your mind. You are in your sickness. I am just a memory. I am just a dream."

"No," you say. "This is real. I can see you. I can touch you."

"You can touch the air," she says. "You are confused. You are lost. You have been walking for a long time. You are tired. You need to rest."

"I am not tired," you say. "I am ready. I am ready to save you. I am ready to fight."

"Fight whom?" she asks.

"The sickness," you say. "The dark."

"There is no dark, Father," she says. "There is only light. You have to let it go. You have to let me go. You have to let go of the past. You have to let go of the guilt. You have to let go of the anger."

"I cannot," you say. "If I let go, I lose her. I lose everything."

"You are already losing," she says. "You are losing yourself. You are becoming the sickness. You are becoming the monster you hunt. Look at your hands."

You look at your hands. They are shaking. They are black. The nails are long. The skin is gray. They are not human hands. They are claws.

You scream. You pull your hands away. You look at Elara. She is gone. The field is gone. The light is gone.

You are back in the forest. The fog is thick. The rain is hard. You are on the ground. You are bleeding. The blood is black. It mixes with the mud.

You hear a sound. It is a voice. It is Thomas.

"Inquisitor."

You look up. Thomas is standing over you. He is holding a lantern. The light is yellow. It is warm.

"Get up," he says. "It is over."

"I failed," you say. "I lost her."

"You did not lose her," Thomas says. "You never had her. You only had the memory. You held it too tight. You squeezed it until it broke. Now you are free."

"Free?" you say.

"Yes," Thomas says. "The sickness is gone. It has eaten itself. It has no more food. You are clean. You are empty. You are ready to rest."

You feel the weight lift. It is heavy. It is gone. The pain in your head is gone. The cold in your bones is gone. You feel light. You feel small. You feel old.

"I am tired," you say.

"I know," Thomas says. "Close your eyes. Let it go. Let the road end."

You close your eyes. You feel the grass. It is soft. It is green. You smell the rain. It smells of earth. You smell of life. You do not fight. You do not hunt. You do not judge. You just breathe.

The fog lifts. The sun rises. The birds sing. The world is quiet. The world is still. You are still. You are part of it. You are part of the ground. You are part of the sky. You are part of the silence.

You are free.

You are gone.